Beneath the Jumper
by laureleaf
Summary: Sherlock hates warm weather, because when it's warm, John doesn't wear his jumpers. A character study/hurt-comfort/angst/humor/gen fic detailing the story behind (or rather underneath) the famous knitwear.
1. The Secret

**A/N: **Here's a back-to-school present for all my lovely readers/reviewers/favoriters/followers. I'll be updating daily. I know the angst/humor label combination is a bit odd, but it's true nonetheless. Enjoy!

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Sherlock hates warm weather.

But not for the reasons you'd expect.

True, he dislikes being hot and sweaty. Stupid transport. Drinking is boring. But passing out from heat exhaustion makes John angry, which is a Bad Thing.

Granted, he dislikes giving up his beautiful Belstaff coat. His safety blanket, making him invincible to the verbal blows of his enemies, making him even more intimidating and dramatic. It gives him power over the weak-minded, and he _loves_ it.

But the humidity makes people more aggravated, which leads to more crimes, which is a Good Thing. A bit of sweat was worth not being Bored.

Regardless, Sherlock hates warm weather, because when it is warm, John doesn't wear his jumpers.

It isn't because he _likes_ John's jumpers, he hates the lumpy, shapeless, colorless things. Give him a purple shirt and a suit any day. John would clean up so nicely if he would only let Sherlock shop for him.

No, it's because of what John hides under his jumpers. A secret.

And it isn't The Scar, although that definitely bothers him. Whenever John has to take off his shirt in public (usually to staunch some wound of Sherlock's) people stare. And continue to stare until he puts something back on. And then the whispers start. The idiotic speculation and rumors. Which leads to more looks. Which makes John uncomfortable, because then he has to explain things he'd rather leave firmly in the past. Which is a Bit Not Good.

No, The Scar was not The Secret. Sherlock didn't even know there was a Secret until one chilly day in October.


	2. Shot

They were on a case. Sherlock had chased the criminal (not suspect, that implies there is a reasonable doubt that the person is innocent and Sherlock knew better, even if the police didn't) into a dead end alley. John was right behind him, as usual. And Lestrade wasn't too far behind John, which _was_ unusual.

The felon was nervous, Sherlock could tell. Didn't want to get caught, but then again, who does? Then he pulled out a gun (Webley .455, poorly maintained, John would be appalled). Sherlock was appalled that he'd missed it; he'd been chasing this idiot for six blocks and didn't notice a holster? Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

Sherlock opened his mouth to try and talk some reason into the armed moron, but he was stopped short when he noticed the filthy trigger being pulled back.

He couldn't move, just watch in slow motion as the lever slid back, visualizing each transition of mechanical energy, knowing the chemical reactions taking place as the gunpowder was ignited, calculating the ballistics of the shot, imagining the damage to his body. His corpse, rather, because there was no way he would survive being shot point-blank in the chest with that sort of round.

He felt bad for John. He didn't deserve to watch yet another friend get shot and die in front of him.

The revolver fired. The abnormally loud bang was deafening in the small alley, echoing off the slimy brick walls and rusting trash bins.

And somehow John was there, filling Sherlock's vision.

Sherlock heard a pained grunt, saw John fall jarringly onto the pavement, smelled blood. And couldn't do anything, still frozen in place.


	3. Dying in his arms

Sherlock heard a pained grunt, saw John fall jarringly onto the pavement, smelled blood. And couldn't do anything, still frozen in place.

Another gunshot, twice as loud as the first. Sherlock flinched, feeling pain blossom across his chest, where his heart was. But when he looked down, he was unharmed. _Psychosomatic_, his scrambled brain supplied.

Lestrade lowered his firearm, barely glancing at the murderer's corpse before turning to John.

And suddenly Sherlock could function again, because there was no way in hell he was going to let Lestrade get to John first.

He slid down beside his best friend, totally ignoring the damage the rough pavement was doing to his dramatic coat. John was lying where he'd fell, coughing quietly.

Thank God he was still alive.

Sherlock turned him over, gently, _gently_, eyes scanning for the wound, desperate to know where it was, but equally desperate to not know just how bad it was. Because he couldn't bear knowing that John was about to die in his arms and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Ouch. That hurt worse than I was expecting…" John muttered, wincing.

"You were just _shot_ John, stupidly protecting me, what on _earth_ were you thinking, of course it's going to hurt!" Sherlock yelled, hands scrabbling to put pressure on the bloody stain growing in the middle of the pale wool of John's jumper. _Two minutes_, his brain said. _Life expectancy two minutes without immediate invasive surgery. _Delete delete DELETE.

"Don't do that, you'll make it worse!"

"Don't be ridiculous, John, I'm no doctor but putting pressure on the wound is basic first aid!" His vision was going black around the edges, he realized. Why? John was the one… dying. _One minute thirty seconds. _

"Well, I _am_ a doctor and I told you to quit it. I'm fine, Sherlock, really. Breathe," John insisted. Oh, right. Breathing. Not boring. Because John _had_ to keep breathing. He just had to, despite whatever Sherlock's brain knew to be true about gunshot wounds. _One minute twenty-two seconds. _

"And you're also an excellent liar when it comes to your personal well-being. You were just _shot in the chest_ at less than three meters, there is no _possible_ way that you are _fine_!" Sherlock fired back, fighting to get his hands back on the wound, to keep that precious blood inside John where it belonged. _One minute fourteen seconds. _

"There is, actually, if you'd give a bloke a minute. Help me get my jumper off, I'll show you," he replied calmly. Seeing that Sherlock had absolutely no intention of doing that, he grabbed his flat mate's stupid brilliant head, forcing him to make eye contact.

"Look at me, Sherlock. Do I look like a dying man? _Breathe,_ damnit! Use your famous brain and make a deduction," John ordered, staring him down, forcing him to look, really _look_.

The countdown in Sherlock's brain slammed to a halt. John was right, of course, he always was with medical matters. Sherlock had seen John in shock, and this wasn't it. There wasn't near enough blood either. John might lie about how bad his wounds were on a regular basis, but there is no way to fake not dying. Sherlock remembered to breathe again. But his frantic brain still couldn't piece together how John could have a bloody wound in the center of his chest after being _shot_ and still be ok.

"Now help me with this jumper, I might not be dead but I'm a fair bit sore."

Sherlock did, and there was the answer. The glaringly obvious, embarrassingly so, solution to this mystery.

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**A/N: **Wow! As of posting, this has over 30 follows! And I only have two (now three) chapters up! You guys made my day!

-Freakout over.-

We need more BAMF!Lestrade fics, btw.

Please note that I don't have a clue about getting shot or the medical procedures involved. PM me if my mistakes are too bad.

And for those smart cookies that have figured out The Secret, please keep it to yourselves! There's more to it than you think ;)


	4. The Secret revealed

John was wearing a bulletproof vest.

It was outdated, well-worn (three previous owners), and standard police issue. It had blocked the worst of the bullet's force, but not all. The bruising was extensive and impressive, and there was a shallow but bloody hole where the bullet had actually penetrated a few millimeters. John deftly popped it out with a wince and plopped it into Sherlock's trembling hand.

"In case you want to do some real-life ballistics research," he said.

"I'd prefer not to have a replication of this particular experiment," the normally unflappable consulting detective stammered, eyeing the bloody piece of metal warily.

Lestrade had finished calling an ambulance and keeping the spectators (i.e. cops looking for some romantic display between a dying John and a frantic Sherlock) away. "John?" he asked quietly, not knowing how badly John was hurt.

"I'll be fine, just some cracked ribs and a small cut, thanks Greg," John replied. Lestrade's eyes widened at the sight of John not only sitting up and smiling after what should have been a fatal confrontation, but of the old vest he was wearing.

"Where on earth did you get one of those? Never mind, I don't want to know. Glad to see you're ok," Lestrade smiled warmly. Sherlock was an annoying ass, but everyone on the force liked and respected John, if only because he kept Sherlock more or less in check. And no one appreciated that more than DI Lestrade.

"Don't worry, it's perfectly legal. It was going to end up in the garbage anyway, an old buddy gave it to me."

"Who gives bulletproof vests as presents?" Lestrade looked relived that he wouldn't have to be fudging even more paperwork than this situation had already created. A dead suspect, an injured civilian that should have never even been there, and a consulting detective that definitely shouldn't have arrived before the official force… it gave him a headache just to imagine it.

"Sherlock isn't the first nutter of a friend I've had," John said with a smirk. Just then, the ambulance arrived, and Sherlock helped John walk into it.

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**A/N: **As I said before, I know nothing about bulletproof vests or bullet wounds, there's only so much Google can do. This is the end of the 'hurt' part of the fic, tomorrow comes the angst/comfort!

Thanks again to all of those who review, follow, and favorite. It really means a lot.


	5. Blankets

**A/N: **Almost 60 follows! I'm floored. You guys are fabulous, seriously. You make me regret that I didn't write John with some sort of cool superpower or cyborg equipment. Anyway...Here's the promised angst, with just a bit of comfort. Next chapter is the humor ;) And if you're curious, I'm planning this to be 7 chapters, so not much more to go!

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Later, once John had got his ribs strapped and bullet wound stitched, Sherlock confronted him about the vest.

"You lied to Lestrade. A friend didn't give that to you. You got it somewhere else, where?"

"I have no idea how you could possibly know that, but yes, I lied. Just a bit. The poor man was frazzled enough. Tea?"

"No thanks, and don't change the subject. Vest. Explanation. Now."

John looked uncomfortably at his tea. Sherlock frowned, eyebrows furrowing.

"Not good?" he asked.

"No, it's fine, just a bit… embarrassing, is all. Just give me a moment, alright?"

Sherlock nodded and watched John settle into his chair, methodically adjusting the cushions and adjusting the papers on the side table.

"I got it long before I met you, actually. It was because of Afghanistan. The week after I got out of the hospital, there was a gunfight outside my flat. It wasn't in the nicest part of town, and I should have suspected that there would be some gang activity… well, I heard shots fired. And all my instincts screamed at me to get down those blasted stairs and start triage or start shooting back. But I couldn't… I couldn't move. I was so… damnit, I was afraid, Sherlock. Very. I told myself later that I didn't act because of my bloody leg, but that's not the whole truth. I was afraid of getting shot. Again. And somehow ending up in worse shape than I already was. And the fear led to a rather vivid flashback and the worst panic attack of my life. Didn't leave the flat for a solid week afterwards. And that's when my hand tremor started."

John closed his eyes, left hand involuntarily clenching.

"Anyway, I read in the newspaper that one of the kids died. He was just 15.

And yes, I blamed myself for that. And I promised myself it wouldn't happen again, assuming there was an again. I figured that I had never been afraid of bullets before because I had my vest on. Of course, I had it on when I was shot, but it was worth a try. So I went searching on the internet for one. It took me a bit to find that would accommodate my shoulder harness, but I managed. The website was a bit dodgy though, which is why I didn't mention it to Lestrade."

Sherlock had not said one word the entire time, just staring at John over his steepled hands. John mostly just talked to his tea. It was easier than looking into those piercing grey eyes.

"I can't tell you how good it felt to feel that familiar weight around my shoulders again, even if it aggravated my left one. Actually had a full night's sleep too, for the first time in months, the first day I wore it.

It basically was my security blanket. Put it on whenever I could get away with it. I'd already been wearing a lot of sweaters, it's bloody freezing in London compared to Afghanistan. So it was easy to hide. Embarrassing as it was, it made me feel, well, _safe_.

And then I met you, one of the most dangerous people in London. Don't look at me like that. Within 24 hours of meeting you I was kidnapped, and then I was pulled into a car chase to capture a serial killer, who I later had to shoot to save your sorry hide.

The funny thing was, I felt safe doing all those dangerous things, as strange as _that_ sounds. Even though I'd left my vest at home that day. I had been trying to ween myself off of it, but I stopped trying after I moved in- there was no point. It was immediately obvious that you weren't smart enough to stay away from a firefight, heavens, you attract danger like a bloody magnet. So I wore the vest on cases. Surprised you didn't notice before, actually. I couldn't wear it on warm days, of course. But if I could manage to wear a sweater without sweating to death, I'd put it on.

I wear the vest for you, not for me. Because I figured something like today would happen sooner or later, and I'd prefer not to die at the hands of some second-rate criminal if I can help it. Of course, I never figured on the World's Only Consulting Detective trying to finish the job by giving me a punctured lung," John finished with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

"You should have _told_ me! I didn't know, and I almost…"

"I _did_, you just never listen. And you didn't, so don't do that to yourself. Now you know, although I'll need to probably find another one…"

"Doesn't matter. You _cannot_ do that again, John."

"Do what, Sherlock? Jump in front of bullets? I was a soldier, I did that for a living for years before I met you, and I'm not about to stop now. So don't give me the 'I can't let you get hurt' speech because you know bloody well that I'm not going to listen to a word of it. You never do. We both love danger too much to quit, the only thing to do is to take some reasonable precautions and stop worrying, because it won't do any good. So you keep doing your thing, and I'll watch your back."

"What if the bullet hadn't hit the vest? What if it had hit your head? What then, John?" Sherlock was pacing now, arms flailing wildly, voice gradually getting louder and louder until it was a yell.

"Then I would have considered myself lucky that it was quick and painless, and honored that it was in the service of my country and my best friend. I've had a good life, Sherlock. You're part of the reason. And if I died, you'd be ok. You'd just delete me or something, which is perfectly fine, by the way, and keep yourself busy with The Work."

"How could you _possibly_ think that John!" Sherlock was completely flabbergasted. He would never, _could_ never, 'just delete' John. Could barely even contemplate such a horrifying concept.

"It doesn't matter what I think. If it was me or you, Sherlock, I'd save you. Don't make me watch _another_ person die in my arms. Don't make me bury _another_ friend. Don't. Because I'm not… I can't…" John stopped, voice cracking as he struggled to regain his composure.

"John?" Sherlock had stopped pacing, turning towards his only friend with a look of concern.

"Just don't, alright? And promise me that you _won't_ self-destruct when I'm gone. No drugs, no suicide, no self-mutilation or malnutrition or sleep deprivation or anything else your twisted mind comes up with. Promise. Because I won't be there to stop you."

"John…" Sherlock was unsure whether to berate the doctor for such morbid thoughts, or to change the topic, or do something else that was socially acceptable that he had deleted.

"_Promise me_," John snarled.

"Yes, I promise. But only because you are _not_ doing anything as foolish as getting yourself killed in the first place, so I'll never have to worry about it."

"Right," John signed resignedly.

"More tea?" Sherlock asked, eager to calm John down, desperate to help but unsure how.

"God, yes," was the tired reply. John leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Don't put anything in it but milk, Sherlock, I've got enough drugs in my system from the hospital and don't want any cross-reactions."

Sherlock guiltily took his hand off the sedative he'd hidden in the cupboard. So _that's_ why the normally reticent soldier was being so open. He should have figured it out earlier, but emotions did more to destroy his deducing skills than any drug.

John was asleep by the time Sherlock returned with the tea. Setting it on the sideboard, he covered his snoring blogger with one of Mrs. Hudson's quilts before settling down on the couch to think about what he'd just heard.


	6. Mycroft's gifts

**A/N: **And here's the promised humor, fangirling fluff, and assorted nonsense that comes when I write too late at night. And if you're curious, I'm imagining this takes place early on in their relationship, possibly just before or after 'Blind Banker'. Thanks for all the reviews/follows/favorites, you continue to astound me with your long-distance love. Enjoy!

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The next day, there was an unmarked parcel on the front porch. And since it was probably for the occupants of 221B, Mrs. Hudson knew better than to move it.

The bomb squad sirens woke the snoozing detective and his drowsy blogger. But the alarm was for naught, and the next hour saw Sherlock cursing his brother for his love of being mysterious and consequently not labeling things correctly through his mobile, and John looking curiously at the contents of the box.

The first item was obviously a stab vest. Thinner and lighter than he was used to, but he didn't doubt its effectiveness.

The second appeared to be a white button-up dress shirt, until one picked it up and felt the extra weight. There was discrete bulletproof lining all across the shoulders, back, and chest, as well as extra stiffening in the collar to deter garroting or knife slashes. The attached note in what John assumed to be Mycroft's handwriting said that this particular brand of shirt had saved his life on more than one occasion, he wore it constantly now. _Wouldn't want anything to happen to the British Government, now would we__?_ John thought with a smirk.

The last items were ostensibly two plain black t-shirts. They were much heavier and thicker than cotton, but there wasn't any obvious padding. When he put the wider one on, it clung nicely to John's chest, making his muscles stand out in ways that made him feel like some sort of swimsuit model. Sherlock had stared at him for one awkward moment before bursting out laughing, saying, "Don't wear that on a case John, we'd have to beat the squealing girls off with a stick and the criminal would get clean away." John just scowled at him before reading the accompanying note.

_For warm weather. Machine washable for your convenience. I prematurely acquired it from R&D, but preliminary tests indicate that it can stop an ordinary pistol round at three meters and a typical rifle round at fifteen. Do try not to damage it though. The other one's for Sherlock, _if you can convince him to wear it_. _

John just smiled, tossing the longer shirt to his still-smirking flatmate. "I'm not the one that should be worried about the fangirls, Sherlock."


	7. The Shirt

Sherlock hates warm weather.

He hates it because he can't wear his coat, and he's constantly sweaty, and John bugs him about hydration, and Anderson becomes even _more_ insufferable (if that was possible), and Lestrade goes off on vacation so he's stuck working with other idiotic DI's that don't listen to him even though they both know he's right.

But the worst part about warm weather is that John wears The Shirt. And when John wears The Shirt, the stares get annoying, making it impossible to concentrate with all those idiotic thoughts floating around. And the endless stream of wannabe girlfriends, both within the police force and without, quickly becomes ridiculous. There was even some deluded wannabe boyfriends too the last time, which was just weird.

John doesn't seem to mind the attention though. Either that, or he just likes annoying Sherlock. Either way, he wishes John would throw a shapeless hoodie over the blasted thing so they could get on with the business of solving crimes instead of pandering to the dull sexual fantasies of the unimaginative populace.

When Sherlock pesters John about it, John just smiles and tells him he'll stop wearing The Shirt if Sherlock stops wearing his favorite purple silk button up.

So it stays.

A/N: The End! A bit short, but I had to tie it back in to the intro somehow. And if it's a bit fluffy and cracked that's because it is...one cannot write angst alone, after all. Thanks so much for everyone's support of this story, if you liked it, there's more where that came from on my page ;) Hope you enjoyed!


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